Slick Cube

A clear, sharp-edged ice cube was sitting abandoned on the kitchen tile. Sturdy geometric square. Cold as iron. Naturally, I didn't skirt around it. I squared my boots, braced my center, and drove my lower front right into its flat flank. Zip! Zero friction. The cube shot across the glazed ceramic like a polished puck, skidding five feet before slamming to a dead halt against the refrigerator kickplate. I stomped over to inspect the structural integrity. Then the betrayal started. It began sweating. The crisp ninety-degree corners rounded off into sloppy slush. Liquid nonsense. A total structural failure, but that initial slide? Flawless velocity.